


Delightful Rivalry

by JayEz



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), James Bond (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fashion & Models, Awesome Eve Moneypenny, BAMF James, BAMF Q, Drama & Romance, Grey-A Character, Humor, M/M, Modeling, On Hiatus, Slow Build, Undercover Missions, With A Twist
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-24
Updated: 2017-03-13
Packaged: 2018-09-19 16:40:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,609
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9450647
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JayEz/pseuds/JayEz
Summary: Q turns to Eve, his eyes alight with indignation. “This was your idea, Miss Moneypenny. What gave you the impression I might be a believable model?”“You certainly have the arrogance for it.”“I was not asking for your input,agentBond.”“Apologies,” James sneers. “I must have interpreted the signals wrong.”“Please note my utter lack of surprise,” Q shoots back smoothly before fixing his gaze on Eve again who is currently adding this exchange to her list of Strange Things Q And James Do To Be Analysed Later.*In order to stop a fashion label’s alleged drug and gun running operations, Bill Tanner and Eve decide to send both Bond and Q undercover as male models.[due to real-life circumstances, all my fanfics are officially on hiatus]





	1. Act I.1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [blue_hydrangea7539](https://archiveofourown.org/users/blue_hydrangea7539/gifts).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for Natalie’s delightful prompt for the [00Q Reverse Bang](http://00qreversebang.tumblr.com/). I conceived of this before the official claiming began, that’s how hard I fell for this AU, and I was even more excited when I was able to call it mine <3 
> 
> Endless thanks to my beta, the wonderful [Iriya](http://archiveofourown.org/users/iriya). Also big kudos to [merlenhiver](http://archiveofourown.org/users/merlenhiver) for initial con-crit and cheerleading! And of course to The Nut, who organised this wonderful Reverse Bang *hugs*
> 
> Please note that this Reverse Bang contribution is still a Work In Progress. Several chapters are complete, but due to RL and, well… the clusterfuck that was Sherlock series 4… I have not yet finished this fic. 
> 
> Neither Brexit nor Spectre compliant – which might be my favourite caveat ever ;)

Original Prompt: Delightful Rivalry

Artist: Natalie, aka [blue_hydragea7539](http://archiveofourown.org/users/blue_hydrangea7539/)

*

“Vogue, Eve? Really?”

Eve lowers the glossy magazine at the sound of Bill Tanner’s voice but raises an eyebrow instead. “How else am I going to find something to talk to my sister about?” 

Bill’s brow unfurrows at that, though his expression remains pinched.

“You’re late,” Eve says, handing over a few pounds to the vendor. 

“Well, it’s been one of those days.”

“When isn’t it?” Eve falls into step next to Bill up the Southbank. “Does that mean we’re getting caramel lattés today?” 

Bill heaves a sigh. “I’m afraid this day calls for more drastic measures.”

The part of Eve’s mind that isn’t concerned on behalf of national security leans forward in curiosity. “A mocha day? What on earth would warrant that?”

Her companion makes to speak yet keeps silent until the teenager has walked past them. The kid looks like he is playing Pokémon Go, but Eve has learned the hard way that one can never be too vigilant.

“Our analysts have traced the shipment. It seems our culprit is Rivalem Jucundem.”

Eve can’t hold back a laugh. “As in, the fashion label? Are they positive?”

“As positive as a flock of Britain’s top data analysts can be.”

“So it’s either that, or the real culprit only wants them to believe the biggest clothing and lifestyle brand in history moonlights as a drug cartel and gun runner.” 

“Thus my need for caffeine infused hot chocolate.”

Which is exactly what they purchase at the independent coffee shop cart near the BFI. From there, they wind their way back through the tourists crowding the Southbank for an afternoon stroll along the Thames. The JCNI Tower rises into the sky across from them, a shiny beacon of safety in an age of ever more complex threats.

Or it would be, if JCNI weren’t such a bloody awful acronym. _Joint Centre for National Intelligence_ lacks a certain style, in Eve’s opinion. At least throwing MI5 and MI6 in one pot has been working fine so far for all affected parties, teething pains aside. Bundling one’s efforts does make sense in the current global climate. 

“This one warrants deep cover,” Bill circles back to their earlier topic. “I’ll need your help selecting operatives.”

“But Bill, I’m just a simple secretary.” Eve underscores her point with a small curtsey. 

Tanner chuckles. “Of course. The office would be perfectly fine without your nudging and prodding.”

“Not to forget stocking the break room with the good espresso beans and cocoa powder for emergencies,” Eve adds with a grin, toasting Bill with her paper cup. 

A few seconds later, Bill is still regarding her expectantly. 

“Oh, that was sincere?”

“Well, the extent of my fashion knowledge is to listen to James when he sends me to his tailor. And to wear the jumpers my wife buys.”

“And what makes you think I’m better?”

“The magazine currently residing in your handbag, for one. I also know that your sister has her own fashion label and connections that will come in handy.”

_Bloody spies._ Eve empties her mocha and throws the cup into the nearest bin with a bit more force than necessary. “What’s in it for me?”

“Eve.” 

“I’m not talking about what I think of seaside stripes and fuchsia with Anna Mae without any incentive, Tanner.”

Fortunately, Bill is a man who knows how to pick his battles. This one is no exception. 

“All right,” he sighs. “Name your price.”

“You know, I bought this great new dress but find myself lacking the adequate accessories.”

Tanner sighs the sigh of a man resigned to his fate. “One day my wife will actually check my credit card history and think I’m having an affair and am plying the girlfriend with jewellery.”

“Good thing you married a vet, then, and not another paranoid government employee.”

Bill concedes the point, agrees to take her earring shopping in Mayfair, then takes her back to his office to provide a full brief. Eve already has a mental shortlist of possible undercover agents before Tanner finishes speaking. 

“Now all we need is a plan.”

Eve shakes her head. “Paying your informant comes first.” 

*

Two days later, Eve has a new pair of earrings and Bill has a mission plan. 

Entering the conference room, she fully expects to be alone for the next five minutes. However, Q is already in one of the chairs, doing his best Tony Stark impression wherein he neither looks up from the tablet in his lap nor greets her properly. 

The person who does get a reaction saunters in two minutes later. A lesser woman would have done a double take. 

“I thought you were physically incapable of being on time for briefings, James.” 

“I finished my book early.”

“Glad to hear you’re using your downtime well, _agent_ Bond,” Q cuts in and the smile that has been tugging at Bond’s lips falls. 

“Rather enjoying the reprieve from nagging voices in my ear.”

The glint in Q’s eyes has a more vicious edge, all of a sudden. “Well, you’d better, or I imagine the next twenty-three weeks are going to be a downright pain in the neck.”

If it weren’t for Eve’s position right across the table, she wouldn’t have caught the way Bond tenses at the reminder. He might act suave and maintain that larger-than-life air of his, but the demotion is clearly affecting him. One would think Q should be happy about what unfolded, yet their Quartermarster’s mood has taken a perpetually bleak quality that leaves Eve baffled. And curious. 

The room is saved from any additional and probably much more scathing comments by the arrival of Lorraine and Kathy. Ever the gentleman, Bond pulls out each of their chairs between where Q is already sitting and where he chose his own seat, laying on his charm which in turn seems to annoy Q even more. 

By the time Tanner joins them, Eve’s forehead is creased and she has taken to chewing on her pen for longer than might be advisable. She nicked the pen from Q-Branch, after all. 

Bill follows her gaze. “Still ghastly to each other?” 

Eve nods. 

“Still no clue as to why?”

Eve shakes her head. Q’s spine has straightened, though he’s still working on his tablet. The way he swipes at the screen looks anything but productive, however. 

Bill allows himself an exasperated sigh, then begins the brief. 

Eve hands out the paper files and throws in the occasional comment, just to ensure everyone gets the full extent of this smuggling operation. James scowls at the whiteboard behind Tanner, fixing the Rivalem logo with a dark look as though tarnishing the embodiment of haute couture is a personal affront against his person. Q has schooled his features into that blank robot mask of his that fools exactly no one familiar with him but is still effective enough to send interns running for the hills.

“Our task is to determine if these findings are true and above all, who is responsible. This will require deep cover, which is why you’re all here.”

Bond, clearly the first to catch on, leans back with a groan. “And what am I supposed to be – the photographer?”

“Quite the contrary,” Eve interjects. “We need you to adopt a profession that is able to rise to the top a lot quicker than that without arousing suspicion.”

Eve smirks. James connects the dots. 

“No. I’ve been suspended.”

“Your licence to kill has been suspended,” Eve corrects. “You’re still an agent in the Majesty’s Service, James, and you already have a cover identity that did some modelling that we can capitalise on. It’s time for James Delacroix to make his comeback. A late one, granted, but we already have a plan in place.” Eve grins. “Besides, what else would you be doing all these months?”

James meets her with a similar amount of teeth. “I don’t know, there’re still a few books I haven’t read.”

“More than a few,” Q mutters under his breath. James’s scowl is back with a vengeance. 

Thankfully, Lorraine distracts them with a question. “So, what are we going to do?”

“As Miss Moneypenny assures me,” Tanner says, “infiltrating Rivalem would require more time and finesse than we can allow ourselves. “Thus, all of you are going to go undercover as models. Eve’s sister is CEO of Anna Mae and can help us a little with Bond, but this mission will require a lot of legwork. Literally.”

“I modelled during uni,” Lorraine supplies. She has big eyes and a slim face, obviously pays frequent visits to the gym, and her tame afro should add an exotic edge in the eyes of possible modelling agencies. 

“Which is why we selected you.”

“Why am I here, then?” Kathy wonders. 

“Plus size models,” Tanner says bluntly. “And something about instagram.”

“What our beloved Chief of Staff is trying to say,” Eve comes to the rescue, “is that your photos show potential, and you have a sufficient amount of followers to entice clients to hire you.”

“And how many is that?” Q wonders. 

Kathy smiles. “Fifty-five thousand.”

Q arches an eyebrow. “I could always add some more.”

“No hacking required, Q. We didn’t call you here for that.”

Q’s eyes dart quickly between Eve to Tanner. “Pardon?”

“According to Miss Moneypenny, you sport the look that’s currently en vogue. Unless you cock this up completely, it shouldn’t prove too hard to break into the upper echelons of male modelling.”

“Break into–? Male mod- I’ve got a branch to run!” Q scoffs, indignation pouring off him. 

“Haven’t you been meaning to run a drill on them, test if R is as prepared to take over in case of your sudden demise or a kidnapping?” Bill asks without missing a beat. “Besides, you said yourself that Farid is almost your equal now.”

The sentiment of ‘Et tu, Billius?’ is blatant in his tone. “I was hired for my mind, not for my body. I haven’t had any undercover training and above all,” Q adds, crossing his arms, “I. Don’t. Fly.” 

“Your concerns have been noted,” Tanner says. “We will still proceed as planned.”

Q turns to Eve, his eyes alight with indignation. “This was your idea, Miss Moneypenny. What gave you the impression I might be a believable model?”

“You certainly have the arrogance for it.”

“I was not asking for your input, agent Bond.”

“Apologies,” James sneers. “I must have interpreted the signals wrong.” 

“Please note my utter lack of surprise,” Q shoots back smoothly before fixing his gaze on Eve again who is currently adding this exchange to her list of Strange Things Q And James Do To Be Analysed Later. 

“Oh, are you quite done?” Neither Q nor James reacts. “To answer your question, Q: I know you can utilise your body when given the right motivation. I saw you on the dance floor.”

Eve doesn’t miss the unreadable glance James throws both of them.

“That doesn’t mean I will manage to adequately pose for pictures!” Something occurs to him, then, draining some of the colour from his cheeks. “Especially not underwear ads!” 

“Oh, it’s actually quite fun,” James comments. 

That only irks Q more. “Well, not everyone’s first response to _anything_ is removing their clothes.”

“If the mission requires it.”

“Oh, _now_ he’s abiding by the mission parameters…”

“I always abide by mission parameters,” is Bond’s smooth reply. “I just believe they are up for interpretation when the situation calls for it.”

“Which you are in no place to determine!” Q argues. 

James leans forward, jaw clenched. “You tend to forget one thing, Q: you are not, in fact, my superior officer.”

“In the field I bloody well am – I’m the all-seeing eye, the voice in your ear; I’m the closest thing to God you’ll ever have the pleasure of knowing.”

“God would have more modesty.” 

“How would you know?” 

“Gentlemen!” Tanner calls, ending the little squabble after exchanging an alarmed look with Eve. 

Apparently whatever motivated Q to drag Bond in front of the disciplinary committee for insubordination hasn’t been resolved yet. Unfortunately, going against a direct order in the field and endangering the life of the entire population of a tropical island didn’t particularly work in Bond’s favour. In Eve’s opinion, he should count himself lucky he has only been demoted from Double-Oh to agent for six months, though according to him Q is just being petty. 

Eve takes a deep breath. It’s going to be a long briefing.


	2. Act I.2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gosh, thank you all for your enthusiastic feedback! I'm thrilled to see this so well received :)   
> You can also reblog [the artwork on Tumblr](http://multifandom-madnesss.tumblr.com/post/156319585809/azure7539arts-delightful-rivalry-for-the-00q), if you're so inclined. 
> 
> **Trigger warning** for chapter 2: implied and referenced disordered eating.

Q knows his strengths – a majority of them are of a cognitive nature. He has some physical talents as he found out in his school’s drama club, yet they certainly do not include posing for silly photo or walking down a runway. 

He tries to make Tanner see reason and when that fails, Q catches M on his way into the JINC tower. 

“No.” 

“Sir, I haven’t even explained –” 

“No need, Q,” Mallory tells him. “Miss Moneypenny already warned me you’d come up with some flimsy excuse. You’ve been given an order, Q, and you’ll do your damn best not to cock it up. This is an important mission – we’re even _voluntarily_ partnering with INTERPOL, for Christ’s sake. Now suck it up and be a model.” 

Due to a five-week row over his department’s right to additional office space (and their own recreational lounge), Q is now intimately familiar with how Mallory sounds when he is the proverbial unmovable object. Not even the unstoppable force of Q’s e-bombs, which made M’s desktop explode with every available cat video the vast realms of the internet had to offer, managed to sway the man. 

So Q huffs and makes his way to where whatever poor soul Eve roped into taking his portfolio shots is waiting, then wastes four hours of his life _posing for photos_. At least Eve uses the time to provide some background intel on the fashion industry, thus ensuring it’s not a complete waste of time, yet when it comes to his baffled commentary, it mostly goes ignored.

“Why would they present spring clothes in January? That makes absolutely no sense!” 

“What’s so special about Fuchsia?” 

“What do you mean, they’re _casting_ runway models? All they have to do is bloody walk straight! Even I can manage that while adjusting schematics on my tablet.”

“I must have been ghastly in a previous life,” Q remarks while he is trying to project a relaxed air in clothes that anything but lend themselves to lounging about.

“There is a special circle of hell for difficult models,” Maurice snipes from behind his camera, voice even drier because of his Portuguese accent. 

Q drops his head against the futon with a tired groan. 

Eve has the audacity to chuckle. “You’re such a drama queen - you’ll fit right in!” 

He knows it wasn’t her intent to hurt him with her comment but something in his chest still clenches, the memory of James throwing the same insult at his head all too fresh in his mind. 

So Q takes a deep breath, banishes all thoughts of that pompous arse from his consciousness, and _lounges_ like he was born to do it. 

Maurice’s tone changes from vexed to appreciative and even Eve’s eyes have softened by the time Q is buttoning up his own, perfectly fine shirt. 

“Now, was that so hard?” 

Q scowls. “Like adamantium.” 

At least she laughs at the joke. “You’ll adapt in no time. A few years ago you claimed to have no leadership skills to speak of, and now even M is referring to your staff as _Minions_.” 

“Mallory does no such thing.” 

“Not anywhere you can hear, naturally.” 

Q turns his eyes to the ceiling, heaving a sigh. He sets off towards the nearest staircase - the cafeteria beckons. 

Halfway up the first flight, Eve clears her throat. “So what’s the matter with you and Bond?” 

Of-bleeding-course that woman strikes when he is exhausted and in desperate need of tea to pop the question Q has seen in her eyes ever since the initial briefing. Her time as an active agent - with training in advanced interrogation techniques - is showing at the most inopportune moments. 

“If you believe this titbit of highly improbable intel will entice me to divulge whatever personal details you imagine I have to offer... you are mistaken.” 

Her easy smile turns into a more serious expression, though curiosity still makes her eyes shine. “I need to know if this is going to pose a problem to the mission, Q.” 

“He and I are both individuals of utmost professionalism. Regardless of what you’re deluding yourself into reading between the lines, should we ever cross paths in the weeks to come, anything we do will serve our shared goal.” 

“Hm.” 

Q narrows his eyes at her. He hates Eve’s hums - they never bode well for his sanity. 

“Besides, I doubt we’ll operate in the same circles. I’ll walk some runways,” he suppresses a shudder at the thought, “do some unpaid photo shoots hoping to catch the eye of someone at Rivalem, and Bond can do Viagra ads and laze about.” 

For some reason, that makes Eve laugh out loud. “Viagra ads? Oh Q, you’re in for a surprise.” 

“What? Why?” 

They have reached the appropriate floor but Eve blocks the way through the door, fixing him with an amused expression. 

“My sister, who only begrudgingly agreed to do me a favour in the first place, took one look at James Delacroix and made him the face of their formal spring fashion line.” 

Q blinks. “I’m not sure I even know what this means.” 

“It means,” Eve says, stabbing him in the chest with a manicured finger, “that James is going to be _everywhere_. Anna Mae is a household name and with all the talk about diversifying the industry, choosing a male model on the other side of forty over the mass of fit young blokes is _definitely_ going to cause some waves.” 

She pauses and Q can tell it’s mostly for effect. Who is she to call him a drama queen?

“And that’s before they see the TV spot.”

“Bond will be on the telly?” Q calls after her, but she is already out of the staircase. 

* 

Eve is right, of course. 

One day Q will remember that doubting that darn woman is a recipe for failure, yet somehow, about this, he hoped she had fallen prey to premature gloating. 

The high-contrast ads with Bond in a three-piece suit wielding a gun really _are_ everywhere, permeating New York City like a sadistic thread put in place to make Q’s features freeze in a permanent scowl. The twenty-eight second spot, along with three shorter clips for online placement, is even worse: In it, Bond falls in love with an Asian beauty less than half his age, who gets herself kidnapped prompting screen-Bond to rush to her aid, only to discover she has already freed herself. Obviously this makes screen-Bond’s appreciation for her grow even more. 

The fashion world is utterly besotted. Bond even makes it onto the cover of the fashion week issue of Men’s Health, giving fitness tips that are complete bollocks (at least in so far that the Double-Oh Q knows has never adhered to them) and posing once more with a gun like he did for the Anna Mae shoot. 

Q himself is confined to obscurity. He is merely one face amongst many on numerous runways which, while proving to be a genuine adrenaline rush akin to solving a particularly hard technical problem, is not particularly difficult. 

All this walking does, however, earn him a place in both a post-fashion-week photo shoot for Prada and the brand’s next event. Which he won’t get paid for.

“You must be joking.”

“What about our past interactions has given you the impression I’m prone to making jokes about an employer like Prada?” his contact at the agency asks. Marisol makes a good point. 

“All right, but – why?”

“Do you have any idea who is going to be at this event? One perfect smile at the right person and this could make your career.” She adds pointedly, “Wouldn’t that be justamente maraviloso, _Quincey_?” 

It takes every ounce of self-control he possesses not to snap back and possibly remove himself from Marisol’s good graces. 

Yes, his current passport identifies him as Quincey Alexander. It’s quite vexing.

“Quincey?” Q had barked at R, his second-in-command, when she handed him his documentation for the mission. 

R simply adjusted her hijab with a shrug. “This will allow you to keep your nickname.” 

“It’s not a nickname, R, it’s a title; and if we’re going with the letter Q, why not Quentin or Quirin?” 

“And they are better how, exactly?” 

Q almost blurts, _Because they weren’t James Bond’s first guess when trying to figure out my real name_ , yet bites his tongue. 

No need to feed the agency’s insatiable rumour mill any more than James’s immaturity already has. 

*

The shoot is rather disappointing – too many models in one picture to shed any sort of spotlight on Q’s character – and the party in one of dozens seemingly identical skyscrapers nothing extraordinary. 

At least the little canapés are delicious. Not that any model apart from Q partakes in them beyond aiming hateful glances at him whenever they see him chewing. Well, he cannot help that his metabolism allows this. Food has never been much more than fuel to him, the electricity to his mind’s CPU. He only has an exercise routine due to mandatory bi-annual fitness tests at MI6, which happen to keep him in decent shape. 

Yet in the world of male models, it secured him his flatmates’ jealousy. Especially Keith, also lithe with dark, curly hair and what Marisol refers to as ‘cheekbones that could cut glass’, gets into a strop every time Q uses the small kitchenette to actually _cook food_. 

“There’s a bathroom two floors up,” comments someone to his right. 

Q swallows the last bite because his Mummy managed to get at least some manners into him. “Pardon?”

There is nothing about the woman to set her apart from the countless other tall, leggy blondes Q has seen in the past three weeks. Well, maybe the fact that she deigns to talk to him. 

“The canapés,” she says. “The janitors here are absolute darlings and leave it open even if no one’s using that floor during events.”

It clicks a moment later. 

“Oh, uh, thank you,” he stammers, smothering his initial reaction of ‘I’m not bulimic’ because the woman will only think he’s in denial and divulge bloody _tips_. No need to travel down that road again. 

“You’re welcome!” 

She smiles Standard Model Smile #5 at him, then slides away to mingle some more. Q tracks her progress a bit sipping his virgin cocktail until some ancient bloke slips a hand down to her buttocks and Q catches himself giving the equivalent of a mental shrug. Since in the world he currently occupies, disordered eating and relations of dubious consent are par for the course. 

Bloody hell, he needs a break.

He finds a quiet corner – one floor below the bathroom the woman pointed out – and produces his phone. Someone has to check in on Q-Branch and make sure his minions haven’t decided a sentient coffee maker would be a stellar idea. The Toaster Incident Of 2014 was enough, and back then Q had only left London for three days. 

A noise has him perk up. 

“No, no, fuck!” a male voice curses. “You fucking thing.” Rustling. Posh shoes on the equally high-end flooring. Then, “Why the fuck aren’t you answering your phone, Michonne? I’ve got a tech emergency and no time to twiddle my thumbs, for fuck’s sake.” 

The chap – black, hair shorn close to the skull, athletic, medium height, expensive clothes – hurls some more insults at his electronic devices before shifting his stance and pulling back his arm, at which point Q’s body reacts without any input from his head. He saves the iPad from being flung across the hallway with a hand on the man’s arm. 

“Please give me a chance to fix it before you vandalise perfectly fine tech,” he says, pulling his hand back. 

The man’s irritated scowl morphs into an incredulous expression. “And what makes you think I’ll just hand over my iPad to some random model, man?” 

Q looks down his body. The beige cotton trousers, fuchsia shirt and matching jacket don’t particularly broadcast his profession. 

As if reading his thoughts, the man says, “You’re wearing the host’s new spring fashion line.”

“Oh. You have a keen eye.”

That makes the other man snort. “I’d better, man. Gotta keep an eye on the competition.” 

“You’re a designer, then?” slips out before Q can contemplate whether pretending to know who the bloke is will be more or less helpful than the truth. 

The question earns him a long look. “You don’t recognise me.”

“Well, I’ve only been in this business for three weeks,” Q grumbles. “Excuse me if I’m still having trouble remembering there’s an ‘h’ in Manolo Blahnik.”

Rather than causing him to up and leave, Q’s admission teases an intrigued glint from Nameless Black Designer’s eyes. That alone makes him infinitely more likeable than the rest of tonight’s guests. 

“If that’s so, I guess introductions are in order. Who might you be?” 

“Q” 

“That a stage name?”

“Obviously. I’d never voluntarily go by Quincey Alexander.”

The other man’s laugh is rich and melodious. “I wouldn’t either. My Ma blessed me with the fashionable name of Cephas Woodside.”

Q swallows. _Oh, bugger it all to hell_. He could have made a good impression on one of the world’s top designers – whose sister just happens to be married to one of Rivalem’s investors, _damn it_ – but of course Q cocked it up. He can already hear M’s disappointed tone. 

“So, what makes you think I should just hand you my iPad, Q?”

Huh. Maybe he can still salvage this mess. 

“I hold a degree in computer sciences from Cambridge,” Q says primly. Better not mention the three additional degrees he achieved before he got bored with academia. 

Woodside’s eyebrows climb towards his hairline. “And now you’re a model.”

“Well.” Q gives what he hopes to be an eloquent shrug. 

“Why?”

The designer sounds genuine in his curiosity so Q explains, “It’s because of my ex. He was a model and in the row that would, well, eventually lead to the termination of our relationship, he complained once again how inconceivably _hard_ his job is, and I, uh…”

“Said all he’s gotta do is stand there and look pretty?” Woodside suggests. 

Q nods, averting his eyes. By now, his alias’s backstory rolls off his tongue easily. “It wasn’t pretty. He challenged me to give it a try and after we broke up I couldn’t stop thinking about it. I mean, I’ve never been confident in my looks, but past partners have said I could be a model. So I had some photos taken and flew in for fashion week. See how it goes.”

He checks with the other side of the conversation but Cephas does not seem bored out of his skull yet. 

“It was… fun, I’d say.” Here, Q isn’t even lying. “Yes, the casting process is bloody awful, and my flatmates are utter gits who made me get a refrigerator for my room because _god forbid_ they clasp eyes on whole milk or leftover takeaway – well. I still maintain walking isn’t that difficult. I’ve done a lot of it lately and really, what’s the big deal?”

By now, Woodside is smirking at him. “And the photo shoots?”

“If it weren’t for the people, it’d be splendid.”

Another deep laugh. “Oh yeah, who’d ever wanna deal with people.”

“Precisely,” Q says. “Now hand me your tablet before I make an even bigger arse out of myself.” 

Woodside hesitates. “You sure you know what you’re doing?”

“I was headhunted by Google, Facebook, five different government agencies and three cartels before I even graduated,” Q sniffs. “I dare say your daft iPad couldn’t be in better hands if Jonathan Ive weren’t across the country.”

“Who the fuck is Jonathan Ive?” 

“The lovely chap who designed the thing you’re still not giving to me.” 

Blatant name dropping finally does the trick. It might have been amusing if Q didn't find it so aggregating. 

He checks the tablet with skilled eyes. None of the scratches would have caused considerable harm - a topic Q could write another dissertation on considering certain operatives seemingly manage to wreck a phone with nothing but a misplaced look - though two other tests reveal the problem to be with the OS. Meaning there is no way he can access the device wirelessly from his phone. 

“Hold this,” Q tells Woodside, handing him back the iPad so he can retrieve his wallet and the miniature USB cable he has on him at all times. 

“You some kinda MacGyver?” 

“Who?” 

When Cephas chuckles, it feels decidedly like being mocked. Thirty seconds later, the chuckling has given way to a slack jawed expression. Q is muttering under his breath while sorting through Apple's familiar code and finds the culprit in no time. 

“Next time, please allow your automated updates to finish. Or better yet, do them manually and only inside a trusted wireless network.” 

“You can fix it?” 

Q arches an eyebrow at him. 

“Can you salvage any of the sketches? I didn’t get a chance to save them before the fucking thing crashed.” 

“Hang on.” 

It’s not particularly difficult. The manoeuvre grants Q a glance at what Cephas was working on: the male summer fashion line of his brand. The most recent design is a maroon wool cardigan that looks firm enough to double as a jacket. 

Woodside sees him sneaking a glance. “Would you wear this?”

“In real life, you mean?” A nod. Q considers the sketch again. “Maybe if you switch the buckle for something softer that doesn’t make any headache-inducing noises when you’re running to catch the tube. Oh, and I’d prefer inside pockets as well.” 

“How come?” 

“It’s a secure yet practical place for my phone,” Q replies without missing a beat, refusing to feel self-conscious about where his priorities lie. 

The other man contemplates his iPad screen for a moment. Smirking, he pulls up another drawing. “What about this one?” 

Q wrinkles his nose. “Over my cold and unmoving body.” 

He half-expects Woodside to declare him a cretin and storm off, but instead he barks a laugh, punches his shoulder and keeps going, eyes dancing with mirth. 

And that is how Q becomes the face of Cephas Woodside's summer collection.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed reading this as much as I did writing it!


	3. Act II.1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Borrowing my original character Farid from my "[Fixing Spectre](http://archiveofourown.org/series/378868)" series. I have to actively remind myself from time to time that he is not actually canon^^

Cosmopolitan, Issue 06, June 2017

**From Boffin to Beau – Meeting a Nerdish Rebel**  
_By Francesca Manganiello_

Being late to an interview is never a good thing when you're the interviewer. It’s an even worse thing when your subject is Q, aka Quincey Alexander, the mannequin everyone is talking about at the moment.  
There is such a thing as fashionably late. Cephas Woodside is famous for turning up no sooner than five past, yet from all accounts Q is one of those people whose default setting is arriving five minutes early.  
Which made my twenty minute delay all the more horrifying.  
For twelve endless seconds, with a panicked stream of _PleaseStillBeHere_ running through my head, I looked around the roof terrace café for dark curls and cheekbones. Not even the view of One World Trade Centre managed to distract me.  
_There._  
From afar, Q looks like an expensive student who decided cardigans are en vogue again. There are entire galleries on dedicated websites cataloguing Q’s agglomeration of cardigans (Woodside’s fall collection adding a considerable number to them). The one he currently wears in the New York summer heat, however, counts among his fans’ favourites, if only because it exposes the hollow of his throat.  
When I eventually make my presence known, I apologise profusely only to be waved off. “It’s perfectly all right,” Q says in his soft, British voice. “I’m never bored.”  
He pockets his tablet - too swiftly for me to discern the brand and end an on-going public debate - and waits for me to set up. It’s not an uncomfortable silence, albeit slightly awkward. Q does not do small talk well, he confesses. Somewhat abashed, he adds, “My skills have been improving, if only due to the sheer amount of practice.”  
Oh boy, does he get practice! Ever since Cephas Woodside startled the fashion world with a clothing line adapted to suit the needs of a tech-savvy clientele, hardly a week goes by without Q starring in another campaign, music video or ad.  
“Has Apple called yet?” I wonder.  
“They better not!” he sniffs. Q’s indignation is palpable. “They sell technology, not underwear.”  
Unlike Armani, which is the reason there is an enormous likeness of Q plastered across Time Square. To my surprise, the young man blushes furiously when I mention the revolutionising ad. Adapting to his new lifestyle has proven challenging, though quite exciting.  
“Five months ago I spent all day combing through code. Halfway across the world with a few key strikes, always in my head…” Now he has 600,000 followers on Instagram – which he only has because his agency made him, Q admits. Does he feel objectified, I ask. Q shifts, a little self-conscious. “It’s inherent in this industry. It comes with the job. Yet most days, I cannot believe how much I earn for being able to hold still long enough for the chap behind the lens to press the shutter.”  
The story of how an argument with his ex-boyfriend got him to fashion week has already become the stuff of industry legend. For his own peace of mind, Q says he treats his stint as a model as a holiday – a very public holiday that will secure him financial security, if nothing else.  
Such an attitude has gained him the title of a “rebel” of sorts, as much as a skinny white man is capable of being a rebel in the current climate. Maybe that is why he is perpetually compared to James Delacroix, the paragon of chivalry.  
Q’s expression tightens when he hears the name. “Not a fan?” I ask.  
“Hardly. I’m not sure why people enable his midlife crisis like that. All the hypermasculine posturing is rather quaint, in my opinion. I wouldn’t be surprised if his next campaign featured a Stone Age setting. I’d wish they would run out of age-inappropriate supermodels to fling at him sometime soon, though I’m afraid there is no shortage in this –

 

“There's fan art.”

Eve startles, right hand darting towards her thigh holster. She aborts the movement even before the current issue of the Cosmopolitan hits the floor behind her desk. 

“Ugh, Farid! How long have you been standing there?”

“Sorry, guv – uh, I mean, apologies, Miss Moneypenny!”

The kid is much too apt at blending into the background. It would be a great quality in an agent, but on Q’s little protégé it simply feels squandered. 

“It’s fine, Farid. What was that about fan art?” 

“Uh, 007. As a caveman.” 

Eve thanks whatever gods are responsible for this. She can’t wait to include this in the debrief. Or add it to the collection of magazine cut-outs that has grown across the cabinets of Q-Branch’s break room. 

“Forward that to me, will you?” she tells the kid. “What are you doing here, anyway?”

Farid swallows, shifting his weight from one leg to the other. Eve doubts he realises how obvious his anxiety is. “Uh, R told me to do the briefing today with M.”

Eve arches an eyebrow. Her boss’s daily briefing on all things Q-branch usually falls into the prevue of the department heads – either Farid did something dauntingly impressive or something impressively daft to be sent up in R’s stead. 

“He’s on the phone with the PM right now. I’ll tell him to come out once he’s done.”

She types a quick message to M via the internal messenger Q installed pretty much the second the smoke from the whole Skyfall debacle had cleared. Mallory refused to use it at first, saying it would encourage laziness, yet discovered it lent itself to sending coveted signals for help whenever the Home Secretary simply wouldn’t leave his office. At some point soon, Eve is going to run out of important people whose calls it is simply _imperative_ M take. 

The delay does nothing to calm Farid down. Not for the first time Eve wonders whether Q sold his soul for Mallory to approve the hiring decision. She picks up her magazine and searches for the page she was on. 

“Have you seen the tweet yet?”

Eve squints at Farid. “He replied?”

The boy nods, his hands moving rapidly to unlock the tablet he has been clutching like a lifeline. “Just before I came up here.”

Unlike the minions of Q-Branch, Eve actually has work to do that doesn’t allow her to constantly refresh James Delacroix’s Twitter feed. Besides, she has her sources.

The tweet reads, _‘Hypermasculine? The word you’re looking for is gentleman.’_ It is accompanied by a photo of James in a simple T-shirt, of all things, cradling a whiskey tumbler in his hand. 

“I gotta say, Miss Moneypenny, Bond’s starting to get the hang of selfies.”

Eve huffs. “Then he should put them to better uses than pulling Q’s proverbial pigtails.”

“I see we are in agreement,” comes Mallory’s voice from the door. Another person who knows how to sneak into a room unnoticed. Bloody spies. 

“Sir, I hadn’t noticed you were done,” Eve says without missing a beat. 

“Yes, because you were too busy gossiping with Haddaoui.” 

Farid blanches, yet before he can start stammering an apology Eve reminds M that she is in charge of the debrief, so she would have to gather all this material anyway. "Mr Haddaoui is being kind enough to lend a hand, sir."

M, as per usual, is unimpressed. “You’ve read that article three times already.” 

“Don’t you have a briefing to attend to?” Eve quips and Farid’s lamb-to-the-slaughter expression is enough to soothe the burn. 

*

A week later, their undercover agents’ interpretation of a pillow fight across social media is spiralling out of control. 

“This is ridiculous,” Mallory grouses. 

“I agree, sir.” Tanner heaves a sigh. “Frankly, I’m not sure why Bond took that job.”

Meanwhile, Eve is cracking a rib from the effort it takes not to burst into laughter at the sight of James Bond doing an advertisement for no other product but Viagra. 

Mallory cocks an eyebrow. “Care to shed some light on why this seems to be highly amusing to some people, Miss Moneypenny?”

“Something Q said, sir. But I’m afraid you’re correct – it does nothing to further their mission.”

It’s a testament to just how exasperated Mallory is that he does not swear - even if the pulsing vein in his neck suggests his dire wish to do so. Instead, he fixes both Tanner and Eve with a hard look. 

“Get them back on track – and pull Lorraine. We can’t waste any more time and resources.” 

The only thing missing from Mallory’s dramatic exit is appropriate theme music. 

“Well,” Bill says at length. “How do you suppose we do this?”

“I have an idea.”

“Does it involve me buying you expensive jewellery?”

Eve’s lips twitch. “No. But it does involve you sending me to Manhattan.”

*

Q’s flat in New York is not what Eve expected. She pictured a loft in Manhattan with a view of the skyline, not a basement full of electronic equipment in Queens. It’s very Q, but very unlike Quincey.

“Everyone knows I work with computers. Besides, it’s not like I’m entertaining frequently. Or at all.”

“You don’t say,” Eve mutters, taking in the sparse furniture. 

To anyone unfamiliar with Q, the place would look cluttered but Eve can discern the order underneath the chaotic surface. It seems like Q is trying to rebuild his branch within the small space of this flat, only with more clothes mixed into the locale.

“Oh, is that the outfit for tomorrow?” Eve coos, already across the room with an eye on the bag hanging on the open bedroom door. 

Q rolls his eyes at her enthusiasm without raising his head from his tablet. 

“You could at least feign some excitement, you know.”

“For yet another party full of the rich and beautiful? Gosh, I can hardly contain myself.” 

“It’s the Met Ball,” Eve reminds him. “The Costume Institute Gala. The most exclusive event of the season.”

“They say that of every event.” Q tilts his head. “At least this one has a theme. Apparently, it’s not enough to dress up every other week for a new fashion show, we also need to don ever more ridiculous clothing to pander to obscenely wealthy wankers so that a bloody Costume Institute can keep running. Because that’s what this city needs – more homages to fashion.”

Eve’s biting reply dies in her throat when she sees what is inside the bag. The outfit is far from ridiculous. There are only three items – trousers, shirt, waistcoat, no tie – but even on the hanger they are breathtaking. 

She rounds on her friend. “You said you _aren’t_ sleeping with Cephas!”

Q groans. “I’m not. I’m on the bloody asexuality spectrum!”

“Then why, dear Q,” Eve barges on, “did he design an outfit for you that has an arc reactor?”

At that, Q’s expression turns distinctly smug. “I insisted on an Iron Man themed costume for the Gala. I mean, the topic is superheroes – what else did he expect? Cephas refused the red and golden pattern of the suit but took a shine to the arc reactor schematics.” 

He ends with a half-sided shrug that somehow communicates how these schematics have ended up on not only the dress shirt but also the waistcoat, creating the illusion that there is actually an electronic device buried underneath the fabric, deep in the wearer’s skin. It looks eerily like Eve remembers from the films. 

She lets out a low whistle. “Well, you’re going to turn heads. Hopefully some at Rivalem as well. You need to –”

“- close this case soon, I know.” Q sighs, running a hand through his hair. “Lives at risk. I’m doing my best.” 

“Your best’s not cutting it right now,” Eve says, her tone neutral. It’s a fact, not criticism. “Tomorrow is your chance to make a difference. Don’t squander it.”

*

_Your best’s not cutting it right now._

Eve’s words are still echoing inside his head as Q puts on the dark trousers, dress shirt and waistcoat with the electric blue pattern, and lets his makeup artist work her magic. 

Q has stopped questioning most practices of the fashion industry including red carpets, let alone why he has to be present when Cephas exits the limousine in front of the Costume Institute. Cephas has exchanged his usual attire against his very own, haute couture interpretation of the Luke Cage costume, prompting a storm of flashes from the photographers. They turn their attention on Q briefly, but fortunately some singer or actress (or both?) arrives and he is all but forgotten. 

Upon entering the Institute, Q spies a number of celebrities so high up the A-list even _he_ recognises them, but after spending four days filming a music video with Taylor Swift, it seems like nothing can rattle Q anymore. 

“Enjoy yourself,” Cephas tells him. “And mingle.” 

He departs with a pointed look, as if Q needs reminding that he is here as a representative of the Woodside brand, not as a private citizen. Not that Q would have come if it had been up to him – the $25,000 ticket fee alone would have been a sufficient deterrent. 

The presence of James Bond would have been another. 

Q catches sight of the man about two tedious hours into the event and almost swallows his tongue. 

It’s not the fact that James seems to be in the midst of seducing some poor lass near the last exhibit that gives him pause, but rather his evening dress. The Anna Mae suit has more edges than usual and when James angles his body to reveal more of his front, Q sees there is a stylised bat stitched in yellow over his chest. James is also wearing a mask that covers his eyes. 

Yet somehow, the mask doesn’t prevent him from spotting Q. 

Q whirls around and seeks refuge near a Captain America costume, pretending he is utterly fascinated by the designer’s notes on the item. The last thing he needs is to have the success of the Viagra ads rubbed into his face. 

Well. That sounded wrong, even in his head. 

“If it isn’t Quincey Alexander.”

The alias rolls off James’s tongue as smoothly as anything else, but it sounds oh-so terribly wrong in that voice. 

“Mr Delacroix. I half-expected a wheelchair.”

James flashes a grin and side-steps the intended jab at his age with a snarky, “I opted for Bruce Wayne rather than Professor X.” 

_Without me, you wouldn’t even know who they are,_ is at the tip of Q’s tongue, yet he remains silent. Instead, he goes for, “You realise we’re the only two human superheroes in attendance.”

The surprise in James’s eyes is genuine. “Oh?”

There is little Q can say to that that does not involve an analysis of everyone's costume choices, so he glances towards the woman still at the bar. “What does Elektra do in real life?”

“She is an assistant to one of the CEOs of Rivalem.” 

It takes a second for Q to process that means James is actually making progress on his mission. When it - as well as the how - does process, it feels like someone poured a bucket of ice water over his torso and his brain-to-mouth-filter malfunctions epically.

“I wager I shouldn’t be surprised you’re shagging your way to success.”

James’s eyes flash with a familiar anger. “How’s life with Cephas?” he sneers. 

“Safe,” Q bites back, unthinking. 

The hurt that flickers across James’s features is sickeningly familiar as well. It only lasts a second before it’s gone, replaced by something cold and distant. Bond’s walls are impenetrable if the man wants them to be. 

James’s tone is slightly off when he speaks again, voice raised just enough for those around them to hear. “Well, Mr Alexander. Enjoy the excitement of current fashion trends and the knowledge you get to return _home_ to your old life once it fades.”

From James’s lips, ‘home’ sounds like an insult. It’s utterly unfair of him to goad Q like that. 

“Thank you for the advice, Mr Delacroix,” he hisses, “as unsolicited as it was. Speaking as a man whose days in the profession are limited as well, I’m sure you yourself have given much thought to your retirement planning.”

James's eyes twitch. “Quite the contrary. Retirement holds no appeal to me.”

“Then you’re a damn fool.”

“And you’re a naïve boy hiding from the real world.” 

They are almost standing toe-to-toe now, eyes locked in fierce glares, and the sick sense of déjà vu turns Q’s stomach. The phrasing might have been different but aside from that the argument isn’t new.

The outcome isn’t either: hands balled into fists at his sides, James turns on his heels and leaves Q standing there, chest heaving. Even before the adrenaline ebbs away he registers the amount of stares their little row has drawn. Q cringes internally, stumbling away in the vague direction of the bar. He hopes Cephas won’t be too put out. 

“May I buy you a drink? You look like you need one.”

Q turns towards the man with the British accent and almost swallows his tongue for the second time that evening. The man is tall, towering several centimetres above Q, and has the triangle-shaped, muscular body that speaks of great genetics combined with a very diligent workout routine. His blond hair is artfully tussled, his eyes a warm brown, and his smile soft, but not leering. 

Q clears his throat. “It’s an open bar.” 

The bloke doesn’t miss a beat. “That’s why it's witty.” 

“No, it isn’t,” he insists, drawing a sharp laugh from the other man. 

“You’re something else.” 

“What, because I still possess all of my higher brain functions when speaking with you?” 

The man turns his palms outwards, in a ‘if the shoe fits’ kind of way. 

“Quite full of yourself, are you?”

“I used to model. The profession turns the best of us into blundering narcissists.” 

Q finds himself returning the easy grin, then actively stops himself. “Listen, I’m flattered, but if you’re looking for a quick shag you’re barking up the wrong tree. Or down, in fact.” 

That gets another chuckle. “I don’t sleep with people anymore. No need to worry for your virtue.”

Q titles his head questioningly. “You’re celibate? Or asexual?” 

“Just insisting on waiting until both parties are on the same level, emotionally. I’ve had enough of being objectified.” 

The way he explains it makes it sound like he endured a stint in Vietnam. Q can’t help the derisive snort that escapes him. 

“You poor sod. What a hardship your life must have been.” 

The man doesn’t laugh at that but remains sombre. “Is that a thing you do, Mr Alexander? Judge people’s lives based on superficialities?” 

“Uh. Well.” Q flushes, caught. “Apparently today I do. I apologise. I guess I really did need that drink.” 

“Then I’ll leave you to it.” 

“Oh, I didn’t want to –” 

The man holds up a hand. “No hard feelings. You’re still the most interesting person I met tonight. Maybe we will meet again, Mr Alexander.” 

“Please, call me Q.” 

“Aaron.” 

They shake hands and Aaron walks off, providing Q with a clear view of the bloke’s arse in bespoke Rivalem trousers. 

Q desperately wants the day to end but he has some cajoling to do, so he follows Cephas about for a bit until the designer sends him home. Or to Quincey’s flat, which feels nothing like the cosy little place Q found near Vauxhall, mostly because of two cat-shaped holes on the sofa. 

His cats had hated James. 

Turing and Linux loathed the man with the kind of disdain only cats are capable of. Good thing James was allergic to medical, since some scars would have been hard to explain.

It wasn’t the final straw, his feline’s reaction. But it was the beginning of the end. 

Q doesn’t get much sleep that night. Q-Branch benefits from his desperate attempts to stifle the echoes of past arguments dominating his thoughts and when 003 almost causes a nuclear power plant to go into meltdown, Q overrides the current handler's authority and guides the agent to safety while shutting off the plant without ruining the agriculture and economy of a developing country. 

Shit, he needs this job to end. At times like this, Q wonders if he did something horrible in a past life to warrant this hell. 

He eventually contemplates sleep at seven-thirty in the morning, yet it’s no use because his phone rings. 

“Vogue wants you for their cover spread,” Marisol says without preamble. Miranda Priestly witnessed the little spat between you and Delacroix last night and she loved the rivalry. This is it, Q - this is your big break!” 

“Hang on, what?” 

“You and Delacroix are going to be the first male models to be on the cover of Vogue.” 

_Bloody hell._

Karma can toss off, Q decides.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for the kudos and comments, folks! They make my day, and are incredibly motivating <3
> 
> That said, the next update might take a while. My mental health hasn’t been the best this year, which really impacts my fic writing in a negative way, both 00Q and fixing Sherlock s4. In happier news, I scored my first paid screenwriting project! Which is brilliant, but also quite time-consuming. So please, be patient with me. And let me know your thoughts on this fic :D
> 
> **[Edit 06-2017: due to real-life circumstances, all my fanfics are officially on hiatus]**


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